Fall
by 737
Summary: Snow White. Queen Grimhilde after her tumble. Strange, sensual, senseless, sorta...


_A/N: Fortunately, I have never fallen off a cliff before. Unfortunately, that means you must excuse my inaccuracies. Rating is for safety. Another chapter is intended but shall never be completed, knowing me._

* * *

It hurt.

Her head throbbed and the whole of her body was numb. A hurtful, disjointed numb of vaguely distant pain approaching, creeping from inwards out. A throbbing numbness that left ache in its wake. Slow and dull, advancing stealthily upon her gradually regaining sensations.

The tender red petals that were her lips parted; a feeble moan emerged and echoed dully in the dry air. Ragged, heaving breath batted air into groaning lungs. At long last, Queen Grimhilde came to.

The potion's spell had by now eroded; flowery bruises erupted from pale, still-supple skin. A rose fragile albeit its thorns. Raw losing its rawness, tender giving way to calloused scars. But ever – what was the word? Beautiful. Almost like snow. (But not quite.)

A few feet away lay the queen's golden crown, glittering in the straying daylight. Stranded sunflowers in dark stone backdrop. Stationary. Pretty and out of place. A wisp of raven-black hair escaped from Grimhilde's hood and poised itself fleetingly in the passerby breeze.

Silken robes embraced her delicate woman's body with still-delicate womanly features. Firmly (and tight against the alcove of her thighs), for the jagged rocks had caught the fabric with sharp tooth in mock imitation of the hungry vultures above. Ever above, lying in wait upon their ragged rocky perches, pondering their would-soon-to-be next meal. Not-yet-dead carrion. Still-supple flesh for young nests. The vultures eyed full breasts and soft hips. Hungry. Prowling. And children to feed; voracious, hungry vulture-children. Delicious flesh. Not-yet-dead.

Of all this and more the queen was unaware, for her eyes were clenched, barely emerged from the sullen dream-state of subconscious pain. Out of impulse she made as if to touch her forehead, but oh! her shoulder-joints screamed in protest and the throbbing numbness became an acute, crushing ache.

And all of a sudden Grimhilde was quite alive again; grey eyes sprang open and the skies swirled in surprised, undulating greeting. In attempt to correct its twisted, awkward angle beneath the heavy debris which held it down, her left thigh quivered in futile resistance. And with that small movement the pain erupted, fierce, beast disturbed from slumber. She cried out and the vultures jerked their heads up alarmingly – then resumed the waiting game in which their victory was assured.

And the queen's heart began to accentuate its fleeting pulsations in desperate attempt to re-establish circulation in stalled, coagulated (otherwise ruptured and bleeding) veins and arteries. It fluttered like an imprisoned moth, batted its wings against the enclosing walls of her eardrums: frantic, erratically incongruous. Desperate perseverance.

In the effort, one stunned arm regained its will for locomotion despite ever-protesting shoulders (the still-working one, for the other was crushed beneath her torso, grinding into the rocky jowls below). Grimhilde felt the back of her hand brush her (still-numb) face, delicate (now-broken) features and all. It came back in cold wetness. An inward shiver was stifled in contrast of other pains pronounced thousandfold.

With the will of one quite not yet resigned to petty death, the queen dared another flicker of the eyelids which returned the sickening vertigo of lying too close to six feet under, thrashed body and battered mind (surely the fall had dealt some heavy blow to the back of her fragile skull; the pulsating migraine wracking her senses bore testimony to this unsurprising hypothesis). The still-outstretched hand which now offered itself above her eyes blurred into focus and her suspicions were confirmed. Blood. How much of it had she lost by now?

The scavenger demon birds decided then to spread their eager wings and worry their next almost-meal (still too alive). They hovered in circular trajectories above the broken figure below. One, growing bolder, glided dangerously near. Claws extended.

The fallen monarch saw this and a delayed circuit in her mind alerted her in an outburst of irrational fear. The still-working arm (with still-supple, red-flowered skin) flailed desperately and a frightened scream escaped her pressured throat a shade hoarser than anticipated. The vultures flew off and regained perch. No hurry. Waiting-game resumed. For the moment they were quite full. Acid stomachs still working off an earlier feast. No hurry. All the time in the world.

Grimhilde tried an honest try to lift her tattered (woman's) body (with the soft womanly curves, triangular alcove and protruding hips) but it was too great an effort. Her shoulders hurt; her limbs hurt; her torso hurt. Her neck was sore and her head was spinning and her heart ached from pursuing its vain labour. She had long since lost connection with the injured leg.

And the arm. The nonworking one. Painfully it was extracted from beneath her aching spine. A thousand invisible beasts tore it apart, voracious rocky tooth and claws extended. The intended agonized cry bubbled up into a resigned, wispy gurgle. She dared not chance a look at the wounded limb. It lay motionless, crossed awkwardly against her breasts (soft and full).

Above, the vultures made silent vulture-sounds of which she was aware. Close and ever-waiting. The game of patience from which they were bound to emerge victorious. The game of Life and Death and hungry not-so-hungry children vultures at stake.

All this and more the queen knew and feared but her eyes shut in sleepy terror despite herself, surrendering consciousness once again.


End file.
